Just before dinner Sipiagin called his wife into the library. He wanted
to have a talk with her alone. He seemed worried. He told her that the
factory was really in a bad way, that Solomin struck him as a capable
man, although a little stiff, and thought it was necessary to continue
being _aux petits soins_ with him.
“How I should like to get hold of him!” he repeated once or twice.
Sipiagin was very much annoyed at Kollomietzev’s being there. “Devil
take the man! He sees nihilists everywhere and is always wanting to
suppress them! Let him do it at his own house I He simply can’t hold his
tongue!”
Valentina Mihailovna said that she would be delighted to be _aux petits
soins_ with the new visitor, but it seemed to her that he had no need of
these _petits soins_ and took no notice of them; not rudely in any way,
but he was quite indifferent; very remarkable in a man _du commun_.
“Never mind.... Be nice to him just the same!” Sipiagin begged of her.
Valentina Mihailovna promised to do what he wanted and fulfilled
her promise conscientiously. She began by having a _tête-à-tête_ with
Kollomietzev. What she said to him remains a secret, but he came to the
table with the air of a man who had made up his mind to be discreet and
submissive at all costs. This “resignation” gave his whole bearing a
slight touch of melancholy; and what dignity... oh, what dignity there
was in every one of his movements! Valentina Mihailovna introduced
Solomin to everybody (he looked more attentively at Mariana than at
any of the others), and made him sit beside her on her right at table.
Kollomietzev sat on her left, and as he unfolded his serviette screwed
up his face and smiled, as much as to say, “Well, now let us begin our
little comedy!” Sipiagin sat on the opposite side and watched him with
some anxiety. By a new arrangement of Madame Sipiagina, Nejdanov was not
put next to Mariana as usual, but between Anna Zaharovna and Sipiagin.
Mariana found her card (as the dinner was a stately one) on her
serviette between Kollomietzev and Kolia. The dinner was excellently
served; there was even a “menu”—a painted card lay before each person.
Directly soup was finished, Sipiagin again brought the conversation
round to his factory, and from there went on to Russian manufacture in
general. Solomin, as usual, replied very briefly. As soon as he began
speaking, Mariana fixed her eyes upon him. Kollomietzev, who was sitting
beside her, turned to her with various compliments (he had been asked
not to start a dispute), but she did not listen to him; and indeed he
pronounced all his pleasantries in a half-hearted manner, merely to
satisfy his own conscience. He realised that there was something between
himself and this young girl that could not be crossed.
As for Nejdanov, something even worse had come to pass between him and
the master of the house. For Sipiagin, Nejdanov had become simply a
piece of furniture, or an empty space that he quite ignored. These new
relations had taken place so quickly and unmistakably that when Nejdanov
pronounced a few words in answer to a remark of Anna Zaharovna’s,
Sipiagin looked round in amazement, as if wondering where the sound came
from.
Sipiagin evidently possessed some of the characteristics for which
certain of the great Russian bureaucrats are celebrated for.
After the fish, Valentina Mihailovna, who had been lavishing all her
charms on Solomin, said to her husband in English that she noticed their
visitor did not drink wine and might perhaps like some beer. Sipiagin
called aloud for ale, while Solomin calmly turned towards Valentina
Mihailovna, saying, “You may not be aware, madame, that I spent over two
years in England and can understand and speak English. I only mentioned
it in case you should wish to say anything private before me.” Valentina
Mihailovna laughed and assured him that this precaution was altogether
unnecessary, since he would hear nothing but good of himself; inwardly
she thought Solomin’s action rather strange, but delicate in its own
way.
At this point Kollomietzev could no longer contain himself. “And so
you’ve been in England,” he began, “and no doubt studied the manners and
customs there. Do you think them worth imitating?”
“Some yes, others no.”
“Brief but not clear,” Kollomietzev remarked, trying not to notice the
signs Sipiagin was making to him. “You were speaking of the nobility
this morning.... No doubt you’ve had the opportunity of studying the
English landed gentry, as they call them there.”
“No, I had no such opportunity. I moved in quite a different sphere. But
I formed my own ideas about these gentlemen.”
“Well, do you think that such a landed gentry is impossible among us? Or
that we ought not to want it in any case?”
“In the first place, I certainly do think it impossible, and in the
second, it’s hardly worthwhile wanting such a thing.”
“But why, my dear sir?” Kollomietzev asked; the polite tone was intended
to soothe Sipiagin, who sat very uneasily on his chair.
“Because in twenty or thirty years your landed gentry won’t be here in
any case.”
“What makes you think so?”
“Because by that time the land will fall into the hands of people in no
way distinguished by their origin.”
“Do you mean the merchants?”
“For the most part probably the merchants.”
“But how will it happen?”
“They’ll buy it, of course.”
“From the gentry?”
“Yes; from the gentry.”
Kollomietzev smiled condescendingly. “If you recollect you said the very
same thing about factories that you’re now saying about the land.”
“And it’s quite true.”
“You will no doubt be very pleased about it!”
“Not at all. I’ve already told you that the people won’t be any the
better off for the change.”
Kollomietzev raised his hand slightly. “What solicitude on the part of
the people, imagine!”
“Vassily Fedotitch!” Sipiagin called out as loudly as he could, “they
have brought you some beer! _Voyons, Siméon!_” he added in an undertone.
But Kollomietzev would not be suppressed.
“I see you haven’t a very high opinion of the merchant class,” he began
again, turning to Solomin, “but they’ve sprung from the people.”
“So they have.”
“I thought that you considered everything about the people, or relating
to the people, as above criticism!”
“Not at all! You are quite mistaken. The masses can be condemned for a
great many things, though they are not always to blame. Our merchant
is an exploiter and uses his capital for that purpose. He thinks that
people are always trying to get the better of him, so he tries to get
the better of them. But the people—”
“Well, what about the people?” Kollomietzev asked in falsetto.
“The people are asleep.”
“And would you like to wake them?”
“That would not be a bad thing to do.”
“Aha! aha! So that’s what—”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen!” Sipiagin exclaimed imperatively. He felt that
the moment had come to put an end to the discussion, and he did put
an end to it. With a slight gesture of his right hand, while the elbow
remained propped on the table, he delivered a long and detailed speech.
He praised the conservatives on the one hand and approved of the
liberals on the other, giving the preference to the latter as he counted
himself of their numbers. He spoke highly of the people, but drew
attention to some of their weaknesses; expressed his full confidence
in the government, but asked himself whether _all_ its officials were
faithfully fulfilling its benevolent designs. He acknowledged the
importance of literature, but declared that without the utmost caution
it was dangerous. He turned to the West with hope, then became doubtful;
he turned to the East, first sighed, then became enthusiastic. Finally
he proposed a toast in honour of the trinity: Religion, Agriculture, and
Industry!
“Under the wing of authority!” Kollomietzev added sternly.
“Under the wing of wise and benevolent authority,” Sipiagin corrected
him.
The toast was drunk in silence. The empty space on Sipiagin’s left, in
the form of Nejdanov, did certainly make several sounds of disapproval;
but arousing not the least attention became quiet again, and the dinner,
without any further controversy, reached a happy conclusion.
Valentina Mihailovna, with a most charming smile, handed Solomin a cup
of coffee; he drank it and was already looking round for his hat when
Sipiagin took him gently by the arm and led him into his study. There he
first gave him an excellent cigar and then made him a proposal to enter
his factory on the most advantageous terms. “You will be absolute master
there, Vassily Fedotitch, I assure you!” Solomin accepted the cigar and
declined the offer about the factory. He stuck to his refusal, however
much Sipiagin insisted.
“Please don’t say ‘no’ at once, my dear Vassily Fedotitch! Say, at
least, that you’ll think it over until tomorrow!”
“It would make no difference. I wouldn’t accept your proposal.”
“Do think it over till tomorrow, Vassily Fedotitch! It won’t cost you
anything.”
Solomin agreed, came out of the study, and began looking for his hat
again. But Nejdanov, who until that moment had had no opportunity of
exchanging a word with him, came up to him and whispered hurriedly:
“For heaven’s sake don’t go yet, or else we won’t be able to have a
talk!”
Solomin left his hat alone, the more readily as Sipiagin, who had
observed his irresoluteness, exclaimed:
“Won’t you stay the night with us?”
“As you wish.”
The grateful glance Mariana fixed on him as she stood at the
drawing-room window set him thinking.